Part 13 (1/2)

She stepped into the outer stateroom, locked the door, ordered her dogs to lie still. The s.h.i.+p was in some sort of commotion; men's voices, and their pounding feet, echoed through the floor and ceiling. Perfect, she thought, and launched into a battle drill.

Thasha was a fine fighter, exceptional in a few respects. But she also had a wilful streak. It did not express itself as anger - Hercol had taught her never to rely on rage - but as impulsiveness. Hercol had detected the flaw at once. Inspiration is a fine ally, but a fatal master Inspiration is a fine ally, but a fatal master, he would say. Be warned, Thasha: I shall make you feel the folly of your impulses, until you learn to know the good ones from the bad. It will sting and you will hate me, but at least you'll be alive. Be warned, Thasha: I shall make you feel the folly of your impulses, until you learn to know the good ones from the bad. It will sting and you will hate me, but at least you'll be alive.

Even bare-handed the drill was exhausting, full of leaps and blocks and whirling jabs. With the heavy gloves it became so taxing that Thasha could think of nothing else. The world emptied of everything but sweat, poise, balance, the duel with her unseen foes. She fought in circles. Thump thump! Thump thump! went her fists against her father's reading chair. Each glove like a stone mallet in her hand. went her fists against her father's reading chair. Each glove like a stone mallet in her hand.

When she completed the routine she began it again. Faster, girl! Faster, girl! scolded Hercol's voice in her head. scolded Hercol's voice in her head. It's your blood they want to spill! It's your blood they want to spill! Her heartbeat as sharp and urgent as the blows. At last, almost delirious, she ran to the wall and pulled down one of the crossed swords issued to her father decades ago when he became an admiral. It was a thin blade, but in her gauntleted hands it felt like a six-foot Becturian sabre. In a perfect fury of concentration she fought her way once more about the chamber, slas.h.i.+ng, thrusting, Hercol's voice goading her, pitiless when she missed the mark. Her heartbeat as sharp and urgent as the blows. At last, almost delirious, she ran to the wall and pulled down one of the crossed swords issued to her father decades ago when he became an admiral. It was a thin blade, but in her gauntleted hands it felt like a six-foot Becturian sabre. In a perfect fury of concentration she fought her way once more about the chamber, slas.h.i.+ng, thrusting, Hercol's voice goading her, pitiless when she missed the mark. Someone's trying to cut off your head! Someone's trying to cut off your head! he'd shout. he'd shout. Do you see him or don't you? It's not a game, you spoiled b.i.t.c.h, you're striking to kill, you're striking to kill. Do you see him or don't you? It's not a game, you spoiled b.i.t.c.h, you're striking to kill, you're striking to kill.

She came out of the trance with the sword half-buried in an imaginary chest. Sickened by what she saw in her mind, as her tutor insisted she must always be. Elated by her own strength. And so tired she could barely stand.

Her father had thought she might take up painting. A gentle suggestion, he'd said. The day he and Syrarys delivered her to the fanged gate of the Lorg School.

She staggered to the washroom, opened the tap on the cast-iron tub. Painting. Had he ever known her at all? Painting. Had he ever known her at all? She stripped off her clothes, stepped into the cold salt.w.a.ter and scrubbed herself clean, then rinsed off the salt with a few precious cups of fresh water. She looked at her body in the mirror on the door. Sun-darkened arms, b.r.e.a.s.t.s no longer quite a girl's, muscles quivering with cold. Men had started to notice that body. Falmurqat certainly had. The prince would have lain with her by now, in his own stateroom aboard his long white s.h.i.+p. Instead Pacu Lapadolma was there across the bay, faithful daughter of Arqual, naked in the arms of her Mzithrini husband. For a time. She stripped off her clothes, stepped into the cold salt.w.a.ter and scrubbed herself clean, then rinsed off the salt with a few precious cups of fresh water. She looked at her body in the mirror on the door. Sun-darkened arms, b.r.e.a.s.t.s no longer quite a girl's, muscles quivering with cold. Men had started to notice that body. Falmurqat certainly had. The prince would have lain with her by now, in his own stateroom aboard his long white s.h.i.+p. Instead Pacu Lapadolma was there across the bay, faithful daughter of Arqual, naked in the arms of her Mzithrini husband. For a time.

Hercol was not in his cabin, nor any of the common rooms. The boys made next for the upper decks. Before they reached the mids.h.i.+p guns, however, they found that a great commotion was brewing somewhere above. Men were das.h.i.+ng forward, flowing around both sides of the tonnage hatch and up the ladderways. From above came the sound of voices raised in anger.

'What is it?' Pazel cried. 'A fight?'

'Fight?' someone echoed, not looking back. 'That's just what I said!'

'Fight! Fight!'

Too late, Pazel realised that none of the men knew what they were running towards. But his offhand word seemed to be what everyone wanted, and as they ran it spread around them like an oil fire. Men seized knives and bottles and boarding-pikes, off-duty marines s.n.a.t.c.hed up their spears.

'A d.a.m.ned riot, that's what!'

'Plapps versus Burnscovers!'

'Can't be! Rose would skin 'em alive!'

There was a stampede on the ladderway. Pazel and Neeps were carried upwards past the main deck, where still more sailors jammed the stair, and were spat with the rest into the dazzling sunlight near the foremast. The jeers and shouts grew louder. Pazel leaped up on the fife rail and s.h.i.+elded his eyes.

'Oh Pitfire,' he said.

The Jistrolloq Jistrolloq was lying alongside was lying alongside Chathrand Chathrand, barely a yardarm between them, and an even larger crowd of Mzithrinis - all bearing weapons - had thronged to her rail, bellowing and chanting.

'Waspodin! Waspodin!'

'What are they saying, Pazel?' Neeps shouted.

Pazel jumped down again, foreboding like a sickness in his belly. 'Don't repeat it, whatever you do,' he whispered. 'They're chanting ”murderers”.'

Neeps' mouth fell open. At the bow, the taunts were growing louder.

'All hail the Great Peace,' said a voice from behind them, acidly.

It was Lady Oggosk. The boys drew instinctively away. They had long counted the old witch among their enemies. True, she had turned on Syrarys and Sandor Ott just a few days ago, and Thasha had some murky idea about her being in a secret order connected to the Lorg. But Pazel didn't much care. Oggosk was the lifetime servant of Captain Rose, and he wanted nothing to do with her.

'Do you know what's happening, d.u.c.h.ess?' he asked cautiously.

'Treachery, that's what,' said Oggosk. 'Base scheming, and not our own sort. Last night the Father was a.s.saulted.'

'Whose father?' cried Pazel.

She looked at him, and seemed to comprehend a great deal. 'Not Isiq. Forget Isiq. He was doomed from the start.'

The shouts were growing dangerous. Pazel stared at the old woman, trying to grasp what her words could possibly mean. At last, sensing that she would tell him no more, he turned to go. But before he had taken a step her clawlike hand seized his arm.

'Where is her body?' she demanded.

Pazel pulled his arm out of her grasp. 'With friends,' he said, 'where it's going to stay.'

The boys pushed forwards. At the spot where the two s.h.i.+ps were nearest the shouts became deafening. The White Reaper was nearly motionless, lying to on a single topsail beside the anch.o.r.ed Chathrand Chathrand. She was over half their length, which made her the biggest vessel Pazel had ever seen after the Great s.h.i.+p herself. And while the Chathrand 's Chathrand 's cannon were formidable enough, the cannon were formidable enough, the Jistrolloq Jistrolloq's were awe-inspiring: row upon row of ma.s.sive forty-eight-pounders; longer weapons for distant targets, thick-bodied 'smasher' carronades, gleaming bronze culverins at the stern. Platforms across her topdeck sported giant crossbow-like ballistas, and grappling-guns that could hook another vessel and tear out its rigging. There was no mistaking the Jistrolloq Jistrolloq for anything but a weapon of war. for anything but a weapon of war.

Fortunately no one was manning those guns: at present the Mzithrinis were content to threaten their old enemies with swords, spears and curses. The Jistrolloq Jistrolloq's deck stood twenty feet lower than the Chathrand's Chathrand's, so the furious mob had crowded onto the forecastle, and up the masts and shrouds. From all points her men launched the accusation: Waspodin! Waspodin!

At the Chathrand Chathrand 's starboard rail some twenty tarboys were squeezing and shoving for a view. Dastu stood among them, calmer than the rest. 'Pazel, over here!' he called, making room. 'What are they blary saying, mate? What's that word?' 's starboard rail some twenty tarboys were squeezing and shoving for a view. Dastu stood among them, calmer than the rest. 'Pazel, over here!' he called, making room. 'What are they blary saying, mate? What's that word?'

Pazel scanned the Mzithrini faces, trying to think how he might get out of answering. At the back of the Jistrolloq's Jistrolloq's forecastle stood three black-cloaked forecastle stood three black-cloaked sfvantskor sfvantskors. They did not shout, but their eyes had depths of rage beyond any of their countrymen. One was older, a man of thirty or thirty-five. The others were in their twenties, their faces hard and menacing.

'You're lookin' at them sfanksters, ain't ye?' said another tarboy, whose nickname was Fishhook. 'There was more of 'em a minute ago - and one was a girl.'

'A girl?' said Pazel sharply.

'Fishhook's right,' said Dastu. 'But the girl didn't stay on deck very long. Just took one good look at us and ran for the ladderway. I thought she was going to cry.'

Pazel thought of the masked girl at the wedding, whose voice still echoed in his mind. Could that have been her? Had she been looking for him again?

The Mzithrinis grew louder. Nor were the Arqualis content to be out-screamed: some accused the Mzithrinis of killing Thasha - hadn't they p.r.i.c.ked her with a knife, just before she collapsed? Others demanded that they hand over Pacu Lapadolma.

'Blood-drinkers!' they howled, red-faced. 'Black rags! Want to get whipped like forty years ago?'

Pazel could scarcely recognise his s.h.i.+pmates. Were these the same people who had witnessed Arunis' black magic two days ago? The men who had run in terror from the fleshancs? Where had they found this courage, and this crazy pride? They didn't know what they were being accused of, but they were d.a.m.ned well going to deny it. And though they hated and feared Arunis, the sight of their old enemies brought out a deeper loathing, almost a mania. Arqual, Arqual, just and true.

He looked around wildly for an officer. At last he caught site of Mr Uskins, pressed bodily against the rail. But to his horror he saw that the first mate was egging the sailors on. 'Told you, didn't I?' Uskins screamed. 'Never trust a Sizzy!'

Suddenly a man on the Jistrolloq Jistrolloq pulled himself up into the foremast shrouds. He was a strong, lean man of middle years, and he climbed nimbly, reaching the s.h.i.+elded archery platform called the fighting top in less than a minute. From his bearing and his gold epaulettes, and the way Mzithrini faces began to turn in his direction, Pazel knew he was their commander. pulled himself up into the foremast shrouds. He was a strong, lean man of middle years, and he climbed nimbly, reaching the s.h.i.+elded archery platform called the fighting top in less than a minute. From his bearing and his gold epaulettes, and the way Mzithrini faces began to turn in his direction, Pazel knew he was their commander.

'That's Admiral k.u.minzat,' said Dastu. 'Scary looking bloke.'

The officer stretched out his hand above the crowd. At once the Mzithrinis fell silent. Startled, the Arqualis too broke off shouting for an instant. Before they could resume the man pointed his finger and spoke.

'Deceiver. You have killed the Babqri Father.'

k.u.minzat spoke in his own tongue, and no sign of understanding pa.s.sed over the Arquali crowd. But all eyes looked where he pointed. There at the back of the mob, silent and until this moment unnoticed, stood Captain Rose. Lady Oggosk had hobbled to his side; Rose leaned down and let her whisper in his ear.

And suddenly the captain was looking right at Pazel. 'Not a word from anyone,' he said aloud, and there was a threatening rumble in his voice. 'Get over here, Pathkendle.'

The crew parted in silence. Pazel took a deep breath and crossed the deck, Neeps at his side.